


FYI, Winchester: words hurt. OR Five Conversations That Changed Dean Winchester.

by littlealex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-28
Updated: 2008-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlealex/pseuds/littlealex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversations that changed Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FYI, Winchester: words hurt. OR Five Conversations That Changed Dean Winchester.

**death**

  
Dean Winchester was three years old when his grandfather died of a heart attack. He doesn't remember the man now, but he remembers the day the phone call came. He doesn't remember the call, doesn't remember how long it was or if his father said anything, but Dean remembers his mother asking what it was as soon as he hung up. She had stopped in the middle of making Dean's lunch, holding a piece of bread mid-air as she looked at her husband, her features as still as a photograph. Dean's father didn't say anything, and the next thing Dean remembers is pressing his hands and ear against his parents' bedroom door, listening to the muffled sound of his father sobbing. He doesn't remember crying, but he likes to think he did, because he can still feel the pang that shot straight through his heart at the noise. It was the only time he heard his father sob like that, but the memory of it was strong enough more than twenty years later to bring tears to his eyes.

The next thing he remembers from that day is his mother scooping him up as she emerged from the bedroom. She took him to the kitchen and finished making his lunch - one-handed because he didn't want to be put down - and then sat him down on the counter top to watch him eat. She just watched him for a while, and Dean wonders now if she was thinking about how she would have to leave her son one day. At the time, he didn't notice she was watching him - mostly because she was his mother and she usually watched him with a fond sort of smile on her face - but there must have been something in her gaze, because he looked up after a few bites of his sandwich and looked right back at her.

"Is daddy sad?" he asked, the sandwich forgotten now.

"Yes, Dean. Daddy's very sad." Dean imagines now that she was playing with his hair, fussing over him, but he's not sure. His memory sticks to the words and nothing else.

"Why is Daddy sad?"

"Daddy's sad because Grandpa is gone."

"Did he go to Ok'ahome again? Will he bring me a present?"

"No, Dean," - he remembers the smile on her face, but at the time he didn't understand that there was sadness beneath it - "not to Oklahoma. Grandpa went to Heaven."

"Is that near Ok'ahome?"

"No, Dean. It's very far away from here. It's up in the sky - way past the trees and the clouds - far up above the sun and further than the birds can fly."

"Wow. How did he get there? Is he coming back?"

"No, he's not coming back. God took him. God decided that it was his time to go, and He took him up to Heaven to live with Him."

"Daddy's sad that God took Gran'pa?"

"Yes."

"Why is he sad? Daddy always says that God's good, so he shouldn't be sad that God took Gran'pa to Heaven."

"Daddy's sad that he'll never get to see Grandpa again."

"What about when Daddy goes to Heaven? Will he see Gran'pa then?"

"Yes, Dean. When Daddy goes to Heaven he'll see Grandpa again. Until then, Grandpa will be watching down on us from Heaven."

"Like the angels?"

"Just like the angels."

Dean remembers nodding at that, as though he had decided it was alright for Grandpa to be like the angels and live with God. The thought that he had - at any point in his life - believed so strongly that everything was going to be all right because of God and Heaven was laughable to Dean now, but then it had felt real. The relief was palpable, like the air had cleared and there was no more weight around him or on their words. Maybe it was just the blissful ignorance of the world around him, or just the fact that his three year-old self didn't really understand and so could push away the gravity of the situation without a second thought, but there's some part of Dean that wants to think he did believe in something that completely.

"Daddy shouldn't be sad." He remembers saying after a long pause and another few bites of his sandwich, looking up at his mother's fond smile. "He'll see Gran'pa again."

 

 **monsters**

  
Dean is six years old when his father finally explains everything. Dean never asked any questions, but his father must have figured it was time to answer them. They've been gone from Lawrence for so long in kid time - little Sammy's nearly two years old - and Dean's just sitting at the breakfast table in the motel, crayons all over the table and a coloring book in front of him. He's only just started to color inside the lines, because before then... well, who could really be bothered trying to fit into something someone else made up? Their dad has been gone for the whole day - Dean doesn't know where - and left Dean and Sammy with Caleb. Caleb wasn't as good at taking care of them as Pastor Jim - he always makes Dean change Sammy's diapers and Dean wonders when Sammy will figure out how to use the toilet - but he's at least in the place when John Winchester returns.

Dean looks up at his father when he sits down at the table after saying goodbye to Caleb. There's blood on his father's face, scratches all over his cheek, and Dean feels a rising panic in his chest. His father's face looks the same as his own did when he fell out of a tree and dislocated his shoulder, except that Dean knows his dad hasn't been climbing trees.

"Are you okay, Dad? You're bleeding."

"I'm alright, Dean. Just a scratch." Dean has heard that before, and he's not sure he believes it anymore. Not since he peeked through the bathroom lock one time and saw his dad, pale and white even against the tiles, stitching up a gash across his gut. Still, he doesn't say anything, just nods at his dad and tries to think of something else to talk about.

"Caleb put Sammy to bed."

"Good. That's good, Dean."

Dean nods, thinking that his dad's done, and turns back to his coloring-in book. It's a picture of a witch with a cauldron, a bat hovering in the distance, and a moon that Dean decided to color in an orange color so that it looks like a harvest moon. Before he can even start on the witch's hat, his father's hand appears over the page and he looks up to see a strange look on his dad's face. It's the same look he had on his face when he explained to Dean that he shouldn't pull on Sammy's arms so hard to help him stand.

"Dean, I have to tell you something."

"What is it, Dad?"

"You know why we moved away from Lawrence, Dean?"

"Because you want to know how the fire happened."

"Yes, Dean, exactly."

The thoughts in Dean's brain click, and he drops his crayon and jumps up to sit on his knees, his face lighting up instantly. "Do you know how the fire happened, Dad?"

"Not yet, Dean." Dean sinks back to sit on his ankles, the disappointment apparent on his face, and he starts playing with the crayon. "I think I'm close, but I can't be sure. There's some things I need to find out."

"Oh. Then... what did you want to tell me, Dad?"

Dean watches his dad as he looks away, wonders why he takes a breath, but the next moment it doesn't matter. His dad just smiles at him, just for a second, and tilts his head to speak. "You know how I always told you that monsters aren't real?"

"I know monsters aren't real, dad. I'm not a baby like Sammy. He still cries when the trees are moving on the window and -"

"No, Dean. What I'm saying is that... monsters are real."

Dean looks at his father, trying to decide whether he's telling the truth. He might only be six years old, but he knows how to lie. One time, when Sammy was little, Dean was trying to get him to stand up while Dad was out of the room. Sam was too little, though; his arms and legs weren't strong enough, and Dean pulled so hard on his baby brother's arms that he started crying. When his dad asked what had happened, Dean had told him Sam had hit his head.

This isn't a lie, though. Dad's looking straight at him, and Dean has to swallow hard to make sure he doesn't show he's scared of the look in his dad's eyes. "... Really?"

"Really, Dean. Demons, ghosts, spirits, vampires, werewolves... they're all real."

"What about Bigfoot, like in _Harry and the Hendersons_... is he real?"

"Well, maybe not like Harry, but there's some evidence Bigfoot is real, sure."

"What about witches?"

"Witches, too."

Dean thinks about this for a second, thinks about _The Wizard of Oz_ , the wicked witch of the West, the way she melted into the floor just by throwing water on her. "Cool." Flying monkeys and broomsticks? That sounded pretty awesome.

"No, Dean." The smile slips from Dean's face at the tone of his father's voice. "These monsters and witches, they're not cool. They're evil, and more dangerous than you can imagine. They'll kill you sooner 'n look at you. You do not want to find yourself face-to-face with one. But some day you will. And then, you'll need to be brave - braver 'n you've ever been, and help me protect your brother."

Dean swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and he looks over at Sammy's cot quickly, just to make sure he's still okay. His dad's voice doesn't do anything to reassure him. Dean doesn't want to die, doesn't want to be killed before he sees what's killing him, even if it is a witch, and he tries to swallow but there's a lump in the way and all he can see are the cuts on his dad's face. "But Dad.... Sammy's too small, he can't -"

"I know, Dean. That's why I need you to know now, so that you can look after Sam. You can't tell him anything. Nothing about the monsters. He'll learn when he's old enough, but you don't tell him. Not 'til I tell you to. D'you understand what I'm saying, Dean?"

Dean looks at his dad, the way he's still looking at him, the way his eyes seem to push through his skin and stick straight into his heart, and can't help but squirm a little in his chair. He thinks he understands what his dad is saying: all the things that seemed scary on television and in books, they're all real. The things he thought were fake and kind of funny - like _Harry with the Hendersons_ \- were real, and dangerous, and could kill them. All of them - dad, Dean, and Sammy - and without even looking at them. They were way more scary than he imagined - that's what the look in his dad's eyes says, anyway, and he understands that serious look more than the words.

Dean swallows after a moment of silence and nods. "Monsters are real, and I have to help take care of Sammy."

 

 **growing up**

  
Dean's not stupid, so of course he finds the file Sam's got hidden under his mattress. As soon as he does, though, he wishes he wasn't such a snoop, because he did not want to find the pile of papers that were in there.

A moment later, he goes to find Sam.

"Dude, what the fuck is this?"

Sam was sitting quietly in the front room when Dean found him, note paper and textbooks spread all over the breakfast table. Now, though, Dean's got him by the collar, holding him up against the wall hard, and for a second Sam struggles. Once he spots the manila folder in Dean's hand, though, his muscles go limp and his jaw clenches tight.

"Dean, that's my private property. Give it back."

It's clear that Dean isn't about to give it back, but just to make his point, Dean shoves his forearm a little harder into Sam's collarbones and sneers. "It's not your private property if you're planning on running away, Sam."

"I'm not running away. I'm going to college."

"Like fuck you are."

"You can't tell me what to do, Dean. Neither can Dad. I'm nineteen now and I want my own life. My own, perfectly normal life."

Sam isn't yelling, though, and the whole mood is taken down a notch so Dean lets his brother go but snatches the folder back when Sam reaches for it.

"You're never going to be normal, Sam. That's not who we are."

"Dean, I'm not... this isn't who I want to be."

Sam hasn't said it before, but Dean's felt it coming for a while. Nothing specific, just a feeling that his brother was drifting, disconnecting. He'd thought it was maybe just assholes at school or a girl or the last hunt they'd been on, but everything fell into place the second he saw the college application papers, all the essays and teacher recommendations assembled in the folder. Hearing the words, though, hits him hard, like he's been punched in the gut, and he turns away for a second. He looks at all of Sam's stupid notes and textbooks, the meticulous and color-coded highlighting of passages and important words, little asterisks everywhere, and it looks like he could have been working a job. Reminds him of a more organized version of their dad's journal and the ache in his gut turns into something that feels like a gaping hole as he realizes what Sam's words really mean.

"So, you're just leaving us," Dean says as he turns back to look at Sam. He feels defeated already, because he knows that's Sam's stubborn face, but it doesn't stop him trying. "You're going to take everything you've learned, everything you know about all the evil shit that's out there and just... go off and be one of the shiny happy people? Ignore it? Pretend it's not there? You know you're not going to be able to, Sam. You'll hear a bump in the night, break out the shotgun, and your roommate will report you to the police, or fucking mental health services. You've been trained, Sam; this is your life whether you like it or not."

"Exactly, Dean. I've been _trained_. Like a dog. _We_ have been trained like dogs, since we were children, and it wasn't fair. Putting that kind of responsibility, that kind of pressure on us.... We were only kids, Dean. This was forced on us, and I'm not going to just follow in Dad's footsteps."

The implication is so fucking clear it's like Sam had written it on the wall.

"Like me, you mean?"

"That's not what I meant." Sam's back-pedaling so fast Dean can see the whiplash in Sam's pained expression. "It's okay for you, you've always loved this. You and Dad, your eyes light up when you hear about a new hunt, something you've never faced before. You're into it, and that's cool, but that's not who I am, Dean."

"You're a Winchester, Sam, and you're a good fucking hunter like Dad. You're just -"

"Would you shut the fuck up, Dean!" It's not a yell, not like the usual high-pitched and whiny complaints; it's more of a bellow. The light must have shifted, though, because Dean swears his brother looks older than nineteen in that moment. Dean's struck into silence - by Sam's voice or the shadow of his jaw, he can't tell which - and he just closes his mouth like a guppy and waits for what his brother has to say. "You're sounding just like Dad. And I don't need that from you, Dean. You're not Dad. Try as you might, as much as you've played the part more than he ever did, you're not my father. And I don't want you to be. I've already got a dad, and you know how hard he rides me to be better, to be something more, to be just like you, so I don't need to hear it from you. You're... you're my brother, Dean. I need someone on my side every once in a while - especially now - and the only person I've got is you."

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't have any words because Sam sounds like an after-school special and Dean's never known what to say in moments like this. He shifts uncomfortably on the spot instead and just looks at Sam, acutely aware that his palm is sweating all over the manila folder in his grip.

"If you don't respect my decision, though, that's fine. Dad probably won't talk to me for the rest of my natural life once I tell him so really, the opportunities to see you will be few and far between, so if you hate me too, that's cool. I just... do you get it? Because... because this happened to you, too. This isn't 'our dad's a superhero' anymore, Dean; it hasn't been for years. This is, our dad trained us as hunters, as warriors, and even if there is evil out there, that didn't give him the right to take away our childhoods and hand it over to violence." Sam must be able to read Dean's mind, because the next words out of his mouth answer the accusation on the tip of Dean's tongue. "I'm not doing this to get back at him, I'm doing this because I want a normal life. Most people see a ghost, they run screaming. I don't want to reach for the rock salt anymore, Dean, I'm done with it. From now on, I'm having a normal life with normal people who don't believe in werewolves and banshees. I'm prepared if I need to be, but I'm not going looking for it anymore."

What Sam said makes sense to Dean, of course it does. It's not as though Dean thinks their life has been peachy-keen, or particularly normal, or even very healthy in any sense of the word, but it's the only life he's got. Until a few minutes ago, he would have sworn up and down it was the only life Sam had as well.

"No, I get it, Sammy." It's deliberate, the way Dean uses his brother's name - has been since the kid turned twelve and decided he was Sam - but this time Sam mistakes it for patronizing and Dean sees his nostrils flare and shakes his head before any words can come out of Sam's mouth. "No, Sam, I do. I mean, you're right. This life is weird and fucked up and Dad didn't exactly do us any favors getting us into it, but that's not... you can't just walk away from it. One day, we're going to find the evil fuck that killed mom, and you are going to be right there with us, front line, because we've already put too much on the line for this to just walk away completely."

Sam looks a little shamed and Dean can't help but feel a little proud, even if the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach is still eating away at him, but Sam's voice doesn't belie anything but complete determination. "You might be right, but that isn't going to stop me from trying."

Dean knew going in that he wasn't going to change Sam's mind, probably knew before he'd even opened his mouth, but now they've said all they can say, so Dean gives in. He's not going to win his brother over and he knows it. He's not going to be able to stand on his side and stay with Dad, either, and they both know that without either of them saying it. There's nothing more to it, so Dean just shoves the manila folder into Sam's chest and smirks.

"So, which highly over-priced jerk-off college is your first choice?"

 

 **heartbreak**

  
Dean was the sort of man who was used to knowing where he stood. He didn't like things to be complicated and went out of his way to make sure that they were simple, easy, and straight-forward. When something got too confusing, he'd back off, and that would be that. Right now, though, he didn't know where the fuck he was standing and it was tying his stomach in knots.

The only reason he'd stayed with Cassie for so long, he supposed, was that she was just like him in all the right ways. She spoke her mind, pushed him around, and it mostly led to arguments and raised voices, but at least she always let him know exactly where he was standing. The night they'd met, she'd told him she thought he was a bit of a crude ass, but she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners so she was giving him her number just so she could see whether there was anything behind his smirk. She told him when they kissed that she wasn't going to fuck him, but the next time they went out she told him she'd changed her mind and he could do what he wanted. So instead of the puzzle girls usually were, instead of weaving a ridiculous web of words, she just said exactly what she thought, meant it, and never complicated things.

Right now, though? Dean had no idea what was going through her head.

Sure, it was his own fault. He shouldn't have told her. It was the biggest rule the Winchester family had: do what you like in your spare time, but you never tell anyone about the family business. It had always been easy for Dean to stick by it, because he never found any reason to tell anyone. Hunting complicated everything, so bringing it to the table wasn't exactly going to clarify anything Dean might have ever had with a woman. But Cassie was different. Apart from finding creative ways to tell her what his dad was doing in Athens, he hadn't lied to her about anything. It had only been a couple of weeks, but he couldn't help the fact that just by looking at him, she made him want to tell her everything.

It was stupid, but he'd hit breaking point and hadn't been able to keep it in anymore. He was leaving later that week, and the knowledge that he was going to just leave without telling her the truest thing about himself was eating away at him, as though he could hear the moments ticking down. For all the honesty she had given him, he owed her more than leaving without an explanation.

He'd just just blurted it out that night, as she was in the middle of some rant about the rocks for jocks class she hated with a passion - something about it being a requirement and it was a story even Dean had heard before. He wasn't listening; just watching the way her mouth was moving and how he was sorely going to miss it, even when it was talking crap or taking him down a peg. Maybe it had been the tequila shots they'd done a few minutes ago but he'd just said it. Blurted it out.

"Cassie, I hunt monsters with my dad."

The conversation that ensued followed a familiar pattern: she pretended not to have heard, then said she didn't understand and asked for further clarification, and then there was disbelief and anger. Usually, though, a ghost or demon would jump out at some convenient point during the conversation to prove him right, but this time there was nothing. Nothing jumped out at them except for an awkward silence that Cassie followed up with a contemptuous glare before throwing the rest of her drink in his face and leaving without another word.

He would have taken it as a sign to get in the car and leave the state if she hadn't called him a few minutes later.

"Come over. We're going to talk about this."

She'd hung up just as Dean opened his mouth to backpedal.

Now he was standing on her front porch, waiting for her to come to the door. He contemplated getting out while he still could, running away like he usually did, because it would be easier in the long run. She'd just think he was a complete nut job and be thankful he'd left. It'd save his pride, save her feelings, and it would be the best way out of the mess he'd gotten himself into.

"Dean." She'd managed to open the door quietly while his back was turned, and he whipped around to look at her.

"Cassie," he said, taking long strides across her porch to stand in front of her, catching her free hand in his own. "Cassie, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you all that, it's not-"

"No, Dean, I get it."

That stopped him in his tracks, but it wasn't the words she said, it was the way she was looking at him as though he had just slapped her in the face. Which, to be honest, was a little strange considering she'd been the one to throw her drink in his face and then call him up to talk about it. "Sorry, you... you what?"

"I completely understand what you're doing," she said, tugging her hand away from his and taking a step towards him that was more than a little threatening. "This ridiculous story you've concocted, I know why you're doing this. It's the same shit you pulled the other night, you're just hiding, afraid to get any closer. Trying to tell me there's fucking.... goblins and werewolves or whatever, you must think I'm completely retarded, Dean."

"Cassie," Dean said in his best serious voice, but it just ended up sounding like he was trying to be her father. "I am telling you the truth. Why the fuck would I make this up?" There was a certain panic under his stern tone (not that he'd ever admit to it), and for a moment she looked as though she might believe him. Her cheek twitched momentarily, and Dean knew the appraising look in her eyes, but it wasn't as fond as it usually was.

"I don't know, Dean, but whatever it is that's making you lie, you're doing a shitty job at it." She looked like she was going to slam the door in his face, but instead she just took a step back so that she stood behind the threshold of the door. "I thought we had something, you know- " It could have been sentimental, but it wasn't. It was an accusation, and it stung Dean like salt getting in a wound, but it didn't stop him from making a last ditch effort at bringing her around.

"We do, Cassie. I've never been more straight with anyone in my life- "

"Dean, stop it." Her voice was harder than he'd heard it before - even when they thought there was a certain playfulness about it - and it made him remember why he avoided getting to know anyone. People who didn't know what was out there - civilians, dad called them, like being a hunter was as legitimate as the Marines - they were too much effort. They'd never understand, never believe it until they saw it with their own eyes, and you didn't put someone you cared about in harm's way just to prove a point. Cassie was just reminding him of that with the angry look on her face.

"You're feeding me lies and you know it. So why don't you just save us the time and fucking effort and get out of here now. You're going to have to leave on your... hunting trip or whatever with your dad soon, so just... pack up and leave now. No point in sticking around if you're just going to lie to me."

It wasn't as explosive as Dean had expected. _"This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper"_ \- it was Sam's fault he knew the quote - and he couldn't help but find it all too appropriate. He'd gotten so close to admitting he'd fallen for this girl - both to himself _and_ to her. He'd actually been able to feel his chest tighten when he saw her, heard the swelling music in the background when she smiled, and felt like he could actually belong with her. Maybe he'd just been imagining it all, but that didn't mean it hadn't been real at the time. This, though, burst the bubble he'd been floating around in. The reality of his life hit him - not like a ton of bricks, just a gentle reminder that no, Dean Winchester could never have his cake and eat it.

He clenched his jaw tight, swallowed the truth back behind his teeth, and knew it would be a long time before he let himself trust someone like that again.

"You're right. No point."

The look on her face was a slap in the face, and Dean winced a little as the sting shot through him. "Fuck you, Dean. You nearly fucking had me, you know that? You nearly did. Your fucking charming grin and your easy attitude, you might get a lot of sex with that but you'll never buy someone's love. Feed your lies to another gullible bitch when you use her up, and don't you ever _ever_ come looking for me, you understand? Or so help me God I'll find a fucking stake or a silver bullet and drive it through your creepy Satan-worshiping heart. I never want to see you again."

When she finally slammed the door, Dean promised himself he'd never see her again. Like some horrific version of morality where telling the truth got you burned and lies saved you, he was turned away by someone he cared about for sharing the first truthful thing about himself, and he wasn't going to make that mistake again. He was going to ignore the burning in his chest, find Dad, help with the job, get back on the road, and never think about Athens again. Cassie would be just another blip on the radar, someone he'd left when things got too complicated.

"Better to have loved and lost, my ass."

 

 **war**

  
"Bring our troops home! This war tears apart families everywhere! Sign the petition, write a letter to your local representative, let's stop this war before it breaks us all!"

Dean hates protesters. Their loud voices, usually in the exact pitch that grates on his nerves, the way they yell and hand out fliers, ambush people on the street, regurgitate the party line until they're talking in sound bites instead of having a conversation... the whole charade bothers him. Not only because they're impossible to escape, but also because they have no idea how insignificant their complaints are in the scheme of things. If they had any idea that the gates to Hell had opened and demons were planning to take over the world... well, Dean's pretty sure they'd probably give up the anti-war schtick and grab the holy water.

Hypocrites, all of them, and they didn't even know it.

Usually, Dean's able to let it go. He walks past them like everyone else, says a quiet "sorry, I've got a bus to catch", and gets on with his life. Like most people, it's not that he doesn't care that there's a war going on in some foreign country, it's just that it doesn't directly affect him. He's just more confident than most that his everyday life is far more important than some ideological war that's being fought in some far-off land. As far as he sees it, if demons take over the world, nobody will be around to care about human wars, so he doesn't have to feel guilty for ignoring obnoxious war protesters.

This time, though, he can't help himself.

It's been less than a week since he and Sam left Monument, Colorado, and the news report still rings in his ears. _More than a dozen dead in an unexplained explosion in this quiet country police station..._ and he knows it was his fault. His stomach had turned at the thought of sacrificing an innocent life and he'd forgotten the big picture. Instead of saving everyone by letting one go, he'd just gotten them all killed. He hasn't talked to Sam about it, of course, but it's been simmering under his skin for the whole week, and the shrill cries of a war protester ringing across a college campus on a crisp fall morning just brings it to the boil.

It's easier to make the detour without Sam there, and he just prays the library search takes longer than imagined.

"Excuse me," Dean says, a few feet away from one of the noisy ones with the anti-war t-shirt on over his long-sleeved shirt. He's not sure why he angles in on this one kid, but if he thought about it for a second, the kid has familiar floppy hair and the same determined look as Sam, and what's better than pretending to argue with your younger brother?

"Hi there," the kid hands Dean a sheet of green paper that looks like a fourth-generation Xerox and offers an overly friendly smile. "Are you interested in signing our petition to help bring the troops home?"

There's something eager but self-satisfied in the kid's eyes, and it makes Dean want to land his fist right in his face.

"No, actually, I'm just wondering if you could explain to me what you think you're doing."

The kid's expression wavers, smile disappearing for a second before it becomes something a little more defensive, a little more 'please, sir, you're making a scene', but the smug self-righteousness is still there in full force. It really doesn't help Dean's urge to punch him.

"Well, the petition basically says that we, as citizens of this country, are tired of hearing about all the destruction and death that's happening in Iraq and we want the United States government to withdraw troops from the area. We feel that the war has gone on long enough, the occupation is becoming tired, and our military presence in the region isn't helping to stabilize anything and is, if anything, just creating fear and unnecessary danger for the people living in occupied areas."

The words don't help, and Dean crumples up the green piece of paper in his hands instead of strangling the kid.

"You know what, this fight is necessary." Dean doesn't really care that he sounds like a crazy war nut, he just needs to have this fight with someone. Nobody on his side is going to give him anything useful, just platitudes and justifications that prove them all right. He wants to know he did the right thing in Colorado and so far, everyone is on Ruby the fucking demon's side, and it's making him feel a little more than crazy. "If we don't make some sacrifices and take these risks ourselves, more innocent people are going to die. Because our enemy is out there, everywhere, and you can't just turn a blind eye to it."

The kid's a little taken aback, and it shows. Mostly, it shows that the safest place to protest is on a college campus, because the only people challenging your viewpoint are other little turds with sound bites of their own, regurgitating their own party line and that doesn't really challenge anything. The kid scrambles for something to say - the appropriate response - and almost gasps when he thinks of it.

"The sacrifices we have already made outweigh any necessity to keep on fighting. The war is over, and our government is just trying to keep some kind of control over things that aren't our business anymore. What we have to do now - the responsible thing - is to take a step back and give everyone a chance to rebuild themselves. This war has broken up too many families and put people through too much pain and misery already, there's no reason for it to keep going."

"Let me tell you what, Al Gore, Jr., this war is not over yet. I can tell you, I've already lost enough to this war. My mother, my father, I damn near lost my brother and I feel like I'm losing myself. But this war isn't about us, it's about everyone else. The things we're fighting, they've got nothing on the things we're fighting for. We're fighting to keep ourselves together, and if that means sacrificing a few, it's worth it."

"Sir," the kid says like Dean's a mentally unstable vet, "I have to beg to differ. I'm sorry for your losses, but don't you want to salvage what you have left and bring your brother back home? Surely you must realize that, even as much as yourself and your family and the other brave men and women of the armed forces have done for us, that it's not worth the bloodshed and the heartache just to keep fighting a war that's been over for years."

"This war isn't over, you hear? We're not done until every last one of them goes back where they came from." So maybe he sounds like a racist, but he doesn't care. "Some people are willing to give their lives to this cause, because they know it's the right thing to do. War isn't pretty, but it gets the job done. When this is all over, we'll all get to live happier lives."

"Don't you see?" The kid looks excited now, like he's finally figured out the right plan of attack and he's going in for the kill. "We're sacrificing the happiness and freedom of our own people to interfering in something we have no place in. We need to let it go. We need to stop letting this war break apart our families - and the families on the other side. Our time is up, we can't help anymore. It might feel like we're leaving everything to people we don't trust, but the fact is that we've already got one of our guys in there - whether we can admit to that or not - and we need to leave it to them."

That stops Dean in his tracks.

It sounds just like his inner voice coming from someone else's mouth. This war - this war they've barely made a fucking dent in since the gates to Hell were opened - has hurt so many people already. As much as he's had to deal with, as big a player as Sam is, as many obstacles as they'd had to hurdle, he knows there have been as many things they've missed. It's hurt more families than just theirs, and maybe he has to be like Nancy in Colorado. Maybe he has to be willing to let go. He knows things will take care of themselves. Sam - their guy - will be able to handle it. Sam's smart enough to work out how to get those demons back to Hell, and that isn't something Dean can help with. Trusting Sam with the fate of the world as people know might be a big deal, but their side has nobody else. Sam's the one who's going to set things right, and Dean doesn't give a shit what his father said on his fucking death bed. If Dean's going to leave anyone to take care of the world without him, it's Sam.

"I'm sorry, kid," Dean says, the words slipping past his lips before he can think about it. "Our guys might be good enough, we might trust them with our lives. Hell, we might walk with them to the ends of the earth, but you know what? If shit is going to go down, I want to be there. This isn't the sort of thing I can just sit around and watch from the sidelines. Everyone has their time to go, and I'm not just going to sit around and wait for it to get me. Maybe I can't avoid it, maybe... maybe this war is going to take me down with the rest of my side, but I'm not going down without a fight. I'd rather go out guns blazing and know that when it all ends, everything will be right in the world than to just sit around and fucking hope that it'll all work out in the end."

That about sums it up, and Dean doesn't see the point of sticking around, yet he can't help standing there for the kid's last word. As far as he sees it, the argument's over, but he doesn't know who's won. It isn't settled and it just doesn't feel right.

He trusts Sam more than anyone he's ever known, and he trusts him with what's left of his life. He even trusts him with the fate of humanity (not that he'd ever say that), so why should he have any input on the way Sam fights the war? He should have let Sam make the decision in Monument, not because it was Sam's decision but because Sam was the only one who could make it. Just because he'd been queasy about letting some virgin sacrifice herself, he wasn't calling the shots. He isn't. Dean's not the one with demon blood in him, he's not the one with the responsibilities. Dean might have the freedom to believe that one life is worth saving, but these are the sorts of choices Sam has to make. Sure, Sam is his little brother, the one who's needed protecting since he was in diapers, but he's the one living in shades of gray.

None of it helps, though. Much as he believes in his brother, much as he knows he's the one with the decisions to make, that won't make him back off. This is the end of his life, and it's going out guns blazing or nothing.

"This war," the kid says again, and Dean feels like he's been standing there forever. It's probably only a few seconds. "This war that you're fighting. Maybe for you, it will never be over."

At least, not until he's dead.

"Mark my words, kid. This ain't over 'til the fat lady sings."


End file.
